Chrysalis: Torn Wings

By Donna R. Wood

The na hÉireann men of science, forced to work with the Daoine Réalta, must discover the secrets of The Butterfly Fields before all of Johnsport is lost; and indeed the world. At the edge of the canyons, the armies of the world prepare for a battle of which they have no knowledge how to fight; or win. Standing at the edge of The Butterfly Fields, fierceness fills the breast - fear is the true enemy. Or, so they believe. Coming face to face with the Emperor, who now rules the heart and mind of The Butterfly Fields, shall truly tell the tale of what is fear, and what is terror.

In the skies above Johnsport shines a star that seems to grow in size and brilliance with each passing day. Is it a sign from He Who Created All Things, or an omen of the days foretold in the Great Book of All Things? The seasons are out of season, famine has swept the land, and a plague of fear has engulfed the Lowlands.

The only hope for the world is the power held between the two McCormick sisters. A power they have kept hidden in the elusive fields of butterflies. The na hÉireann men of science must find the source of this power, and the Daoine Réalta an explanation. The answer to the question must be found - Does He Who Created All Things exist or does He not?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna R. Wood
• Release date: Mar 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311110985

Donna R. Wood

"It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it." ~ Anais Nin Life is a journey on which we all embark from the moment in which we take our first breath. Since the beginning of time, the scribes, the bards, or the writers have been tasked with the laborious endeavor of recording the journey of the human race. I am among these. I am a writer of the abstract, and a relentless propagator of the metaphor. I am a reader of the classics, and the contemporary. The prose I offer forth into the world are pieces of myself, pieces of the world. The world I knew, the world I know, and the world that may yet be. I am an independent author as my worlds are my own. These are the worlds which I wish to share with you, the reader. Donna R. Wood lives in Fargo, North Dakota, USA. She is a graduate of Interstate Business College in the computer and medical sciences. Her interests lay in the humanities and the global community. As such, she has worked in diversity, and higher education. In 2009, Donna was awarded the YWCA Cass Clay Woman of the Year award, in the 'Advocating for Equality' category.

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Chrysalis:

Torn Wings

(Book Two)

A Donna R. Wood Novel

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Butterfly Phoenix Publishing on Smashwords

Chrysalis: Torn Wings

Copyright © 2015 by Donna R. Wood

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Torn Wings is dedicated to my sisters, Kim and Sandra, and my brother Michael.

Chapter 1:

The edge of dawn is frightening in the land where fire meets the ice. The darkness so black, fear’s icy grip tightens, and the warmth of breath freezes into clouds of mist, floating on the dense air. Silence fills the sky and time pauses for but a brief moment.

Annalicia’s tears flow like liquid shards of glass as they clink to the ice laden floor upon which she stands; her heart, frozen and devoid of all compassion with no understanding of love. Humanity a thing of which she knows nothing. She is a long forgotten innocence waiting; ever waiting to be remembered.

Her only company is he who feeds her. He who has taken her in his arms and shown her all that is rightfully hers. He who has bestowed gifts of untold wealth upon her. He who has given her what no other has - an identity, the Empress of all the Land Where Fire Meets the Ice. All he asks in return is her only value, the all of her - her soul.

There is only one true Emperor of this land where fire meets the ice. He is long known, since the beginning of time. He is the father of all things dark, insidious, and evil.

Aye, the warning didst come from Georgeskeep long ago, Be careful what you pray for, He Who Created All Things is not the only one who hears. The Emperor listens always heedful to catch every detail, meticulously crafting a plan to grant such prayers to the ignorant, and to those who have not honed the skills of discernment.

In her castle made of ice, warmed only by the fires of the sky, she waits; eternally waits. She knows not what it is she longs for, perhaps only a moment in this sun of which she has been told tales. The sun, of which she has been granted glimpses, only to have them ripped away - this sun; is it real? Does it illuminate the darkness and warm the body?

An icy chill enters the hollow throne room where Annalicia contemplates the world she has created. She paces the floor in front of the windows, with an occasional look of gloom toward the snow covered mountains. Before the sun had made its daily ascent above the horizon, Lord McCain had gone hunting with the others, leaving her alone. That is the trouble with them! They have always left her alone to content herself with wishes! Annalicia flops onto the throne she had wished for herself so long ago–she knows not how long. If only there were more to this world than that of wishes. Perhaps life would not be so tedious, and the days would not grow long into the night.

The loneliness seeps deep into Annalicia’s flesh. She stands and makes her way to the grand entrance. It is the entrance she had planned for many a guest to arrive, seeking audiences with her. Yet, it has not provided such satisfaction. Each time she has suggested a grand affair, Lord McCain would thwart her efforts with excuses–excuses that held little more than water if even that! If he would concern himself with more than satisfying his hunger, perhaps there would be time enough for merry-making. She finds herself longing for the company of Princess Aria, and Elsie.

Why has Elsie not returned? Had Annalicia not let her escape with Mháthair and the mysterious man in her accompaniment? Had she not treated Elsie with kindness and mercy? She could have well let Lord McCain consume the all of Elsie if she had chosen to allow it. Yet, she had not. It is not fair! All the effort put forth in the creation of this kingdom has left Annalicia lonelier and longing for the company of her dear sister, Elsie.

The nails of her fingers dig into the wood of the door as she pulls it open. Her skirts swish behind her as she hurries through the castle passageways to her chambers. She picks up the bell beside her bed. Its metallic clang rings out, signaling the chambermaid to come.

It is the one thing for which Annalicia has been most grateful to his Lordship. He had gone to the Béarla and retrieved one of the young captive girls to serve as Annalicia’s chambermaid. Get to work straight away, and gather my things. I shall take my leave post haste. Annalicia gives the petite young girl a shove for good measure. Annalicia has grown to enjoy her sovereignty of which no one can oppose, least of all those enslaved to do her bidding. The traces of the tears of fright in the girl’s eyes only serve to delight Annalicia even more.

Yes M’Lady, at once, the young girl bids her mistress while she begins to collect the necessary items for travel. She knows not where it is her mistress shall go, but it matters not as it shall be a welcome reprieve from the daily beatings and belittlements.

Annalicia steps behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room to slip into her unused travel attire. She holds it in her hands and stares at it. How is it that she has created a kingdom, all of her own, yet has ne’er left the castle a single day? As she retraces the time she has been the Empress of these Butterfly Fields, nary one day had she called for the driver and footman of her illustrious carriage. Nay, this cannot be. She must be mistaken. She has to have had at least one occasion when she has ventured into the kingdom. Hasn’t she?

As she steps from behind the screen, Annalicia’s eyes scan the room until she spies the chambermaid well deep into her armoire, searching for proper clothing to put into the large trunk that she has placed beside the bed. Cailín, when is the last I have taken my leave of the castle? Surely the girl would know if there had been such an occasion.

The young girl knows not what it is she should say. If she tells of the truth, the Lady has ne’er left, she shall surely be beaten. If she tells a falsehood, the girl’s untruth shall surely be discovered and she shall be beaten just the same. The soft velvet brown eyes stare blankly at her mistress, I...I know not, M’Lady. There has not been such an occasion as I have been asked to prepare your things. Perhaps his Lordship would have the answer you seek.

The crack of Annalicia’s hand meeting the cheek of the young girl echoes from the stone walls. Aye, you know-nothing waif of a child! Can you not give answer as yes, or no? Have you no sense whatever? The shrill of Annalicia’s voice only serves to bring more tears from the young girl, to the amusement of Annalicia’s heart.

The chambermaid slinks away to the safety of the armoire and buries her tear-stained face in the fabrics of Annalicia’s wardrobe. Her sobs of the pain in her flesh and her heart are muffled in the depths of the darkness. She wishes with all her might to be released from servitude in this castle of wickedness. Each night she cries out to He Who Created All Things to save her from her plight. She wonders as she lay in the night, in the cold of her quarters, if He Who Created All Things had wrought this as her destiny, or if it is the work of those who follow He Who Rules Over the Land of Eternal Flames which has brought her to this place.

The usual bright and cheery atmosphere of Bainsford wanes into meals held in silence, darkened passages, and the memories of ghosts of long past. Elsie lay in her in bed, as she does every day to pass the time until such day He Who Created All Things brings an end to her misery. There is no meaning under the sun to such a life of one who was ne’er meant to be at all. Had the na hÉireann left well enough alone, Elsie would ne’er have been wrought in this world, and He Who Created All Things would have been satisfied. None of this would have come about. Now there is naught for her to do, but wait; wait for the Aingeal an Bháis to come for her, if in fact there be an angel for one without a soul.

Daylight rips through the darkness as Elspeth thrusts the curtains open. Mháthair! What is this that you should blind me with that dreadful light! Can you not see I am yet asleep?! Elsie shrieks from beneath the covers.

Tis high time you tear yourself from that bed and join the land of the living. I know well the despair of your heart, mo iníon, but not a difference shall be made by lying in the wells of your sorrow. It is a lovely day and there is much to be done. It shall do you well, this I know to be sure. Elspeth had watched Elsie sink farther into despair over the weeks since their return from The Butterfly Fields, and learning of the fate of her dear Roland. Despite the grief-stricken heart of her daughter, Elspeth knows the best thing is to pull Elsie from her bed and make use of the hands that have been idle far too long. Memories of the loss of Neville, the only man she had truly loved, in spite of himself, invade Elspeth’s heart while she yanks the bed covers to the floor.

Mháthair! I say again, I am yet asleep! Please. I only wish to be left alone. I cannot go on another day with all I have loved lost to The Butterfly Fields. The one place in her life that had ever shone the light of beauty and rest was now nothing more than a shell of chaos and fear. In the midst of it all are her dear and beloved, Duke, and...Annalicia, if it is to be Annalicia at all. Nay, the woman who dwells in the castle of ice and snow atop the mountain in The Butterfly Fields cannot be Annalicia. It cannot. Her heart wrenches in a spasm of agony that nearly crushes it within her chest at the thought of the fate that had been met by Roland. Elsie cries out a mournful moan, pulling the soft pillow over her head.

Marta pads quietly into the room and sets a tea tray at the side of Elsie’s bed. M’Lady you must eat something, or you shall wither away to naught. She clucks her tongue, shaking her head toward Elspeth. Another pitiful moan emanates from beneath the pillow. Marta throws her hands in the air and takes her leave. She can no longer stand to bring full pots of tea to the distraught young Miss McCormick, only to take it away again in a few hours.

Elspeth seats herself on the bed next to her daughter as she begins to stroke her back with gentle hands. Mo iníon, cry if you must, but when you are finished, you must rise up out of this bed and begin to live. There is naught in this world that shall bring back that which has been lost. I and Seanmháthair grow weary in our worry for you. There is a time to weep and a time to mourn. However, there be also a time to laugh and a time to dance. Let us not forget this, Elsie.

Rolling over in the bed to face her mháthair, Elsie wipes the moisture from her cheeks. This I know, Mháthair, but the depth of the pangs of my heart is near more than I can bear. I had gone in search of love, and love I found, only to have it ripped from my grasp as soon as it was given. This has been the way of my entire life, Mháthair. I only wished to love and be loved in return. A gift of which I have ne’er been granted–I shall ne’er be granted. You have no understanding of the emptiness that lives inside this shell of flesh. Mháthair, I fear I shall ne’er love again. I shall ne’er be more than what lies before your eyes at this moment. T’would be a far better decision of He Who Created All Things to bring this misery to an end, than to force one such as I to live out her days in the darkness. There is no light, Mháthair, no light at all. Elsie shifts her face away from the sight of her mháthair, that she may not see the hollow, soulless eyes.

Elspeth can do no more than lie beside her daughter, holding her as she did when Elsie was a child. All the many years Elspeth has spent loving her daughter have come to naught. The child has no idea of the extent she has gone to ensure the child had felt loved–by someone. All the many sacrifices Elspeth has made on her behalf, and all the shame and guilt she bore for the lives that were her daughters’ were all for naught. In the shelter of Bainsford, the daughters grew to be lovely young women, yet as Elsie has said, ne’er once was the love she has for them been enough to shield them from the ugliness of the world.

The black carriage adorned with gold inlays of the most intricate designs, pulled by six sable stallions, waits at the keep of the castle. Annalicia’s trunks already loaded, the footman stands with the door open while he awaits the arrival of Her Highness. He shivers in the brisk chill of the air. It is no concern to him how long he waits as he has nowhere to go and nothing to do other than be at her beck and call; not that she has ever called on him until now.

The sound of pounding hooves draws the attention of the footman. His Lordship is returning from the hunt - if one can call waiting to be fed at the entrance of The Butterfly Fields, hunting. It has always been the task of the subjects of Her Highness to go into the world in search of lost souls to be brought back to His Lordship. A barred wagon lumbers along behind the horsemen as they cross the ward to the keep. It has been a fruitful hunt indeed. The wagon is full to the brim with those who have lost their way upon the road. It appears the hunt has once again been in the brothels, and alleyways of the pubs, with the occasional gold-mongering Highlander among the lot. The footman smiles to himself and lets out a grunt of satisfaction. Perhaps His Lordship shall be satisfied for the day, or mayhaps even the week.

Lord McCain dismounts and strides to where the footman awaits by the carriage. Aye? What is this? Where is Her Highness, and why has she called for her carriage?

The footman bows to his master, I know not your Lordship. I only know that I have been summoned to collect Her Highness and her things. By the looks of it, it would appear she plans to be away for some time.

McCain surveys the pile of trunks and bags that have been loaded on the carriage. There are many things he can tolerate from Annalicia, but this...this shall never do. He knows well if Annalicia should leave The Butterfly Fields, even for the briefest of moments, all his efforts shall be lost. Nay, he cannot allow her to go wherever it is she has planned to travel. Once free of The Butterfly Fields the all of everything within them shall melt away to a great nothingness. Nay, this he shall not allow.

Take her things back to whence they have come. Her Highness shall not be in need of your service this day! McCain orders with a wave of his hand while he turns to take the steps of the keep by twos in search of Annalicia.

At her chamber door he finds Annalicia in the final preparations of dressing and primping her hair. The chambermaid stands behind Annalicia, holding the looking glass that Annalicia may see the back of her head. McCain’s visage appears in both mirrors, sending Annalicia into a momentary state of confusion. She turns in her seat to greet her husband. M’Lord, I am so glad you have made it home before I depart. I was so hoping you would.

And where is it you are off to my dear? I do hope you have not forgotten we shall be entertaining guests this night. Have you? He had thought up the lie on his way through the passages that lead to Annalicia’s chambers. She would never take her leave if there were to be a grand affair at the castle.

Annalicia stands to face McCain. Entertaining guests? Nay, I do not recall planning such an eve. I am off to visit my dear sister. She is visiting at Bainsford these past weeks, and I shall be dreadful sorry if I should miss out on the chance to see her.

My dear, how is it you have forgotten it is my birthday? We were to have a grand ball in my honor this night. But, I understand. After all it is your sister, and she has been absent from your life for such a very long time, without even so much as a message as to her well-being. You absolutely must go at once to see her. McCain pulls Annalicia into his arms and squeezes her with a gentle hug. There is always another birthday–another year.

Her thoughts disoriented and her heart torn between the man and the sister, both of whom she loves. She snuggles into McCain’s chest, Nay, I shall not deprive you of your ball. I suppose my wits got loose of me in my desire to see my dear Elsie again. And, we cannot disappoint our loyal subjects now can we? Annalicia begins to feel delight in her heart at the thought of the grand affair she had only been wishing for hours ago. It shall be the grandest ball the kingdom has ever had. There shall be an orchestra with dancing and laughter to the wee hours of the morning. It shall be perfect. The most perfect night ever in The Butterfly Fields.

McCain kisses her on her forehead with fondness, and breathes a sigh of relief as his efforts to gain approval from Father are well intact. I am starved. It was a fine hunt. I shall have a bite to eat, and then prepare for the ball. You shall be the loveliest lady of the night, and I honored to escort you, my love. It shall be a most wonderful birthday. He nearly spat the words from his mouth. McCain can hardly wait for the day when this charade comes to an end once and for all.

Chapter 2:

We will not be taken by surprise again! Not this time! Jeremiah shouts as he addresses the Daoine Réalta Elder Council. This time it may not be the Béarla that comes, but we must prepare!

Kastel stands from his seat next to Jeremiah, placing a hand on the sleeve of Jeremiah’s robe. Jeremiah, there is no need for shouting. The Daoine Réalta is well aware of that which comes. Let us use the wisdom of The Great Book of All Things to guide our decision making. As it says, He Who Created All Things will not leave or forsake those whom believe and have faith in Him. Kastel seats himself, and folds his hands together on the table before him.

Jeremiah hesitates for a moment before sitting down in his chair. The attack of the Béarla is fresh in his mind as the anxiety of the coming battle rages within him. Before the Béarla attack, never were the gates of the citadel compromised by marauders and murderers. There had been so much bloodshed and weeping in the streets. There had not been a single Daoine Réalta who had suffered death at the hands of another. Every Daoine Réalta had either passed in illness or at peace. The idea of surviving another assault within the citadel gates is more than Jeremiah can bear.

Matthew, a member of the Brothers of Celibacy, rises to say his piece, his hands clasped together beneath the brown robe of his order. The Brothers and I will hold vigil day and night at the altar of He Who Created All Things. We have already begun to pray in spirit for our people, and the world at large. His head bobs in affirmation as he seeks approval from each of the Daoine Réalta who shares the Council table with him.

Matthew and his eleven Brothers had arrived sometime after the original Daoine Réalta had come to these lands. They brought with them the glorious news that the first Arrival had come and they had been witness to the Son in the flesh. It was so long ago, but yet remained fresh in the minds of Matthew and the Brothers. After they had fulfilled the lot given them by He Who Created All Things, they